Double Jeopardy Read online

  He shook his head; he really was getting paranoid. No one could possibly know he was here.

  He opened the door. “Hello.”

  The man smiled politely. “Good morning. I’m delivering some documents for”—he glanced at the label—“Laverne Cavanaugh.”

  Travis grinned. No wonder everyone called her by her last name. “I’ll take it.”

  “I’m afraid I need a signature.”

  “But she’s still asleep.”

  “That’s all right. You can sign for her.” He handed Travis a pen.

  Travis took the pen and started to sign Cavanaugh’s name. “Uh-oh.” He turned the pen upside down and shook it, but nothing happened. “Out of ink.”

  “Hell,” the courier said. “I’ll have to go back to my car and get another one.”

  “That’s all right. There must be another pen somewhere around here. Let me look.”

  “Hey, thanks,” the man said.

  “No problem.” Travis returned to the living room. The courier stepped inside and closed the door.

  Travis tried to find the pen he had been drawing diagrams with last night, without success. Probably lost somewhere in the depths of Cavanaugh’s shag carpet, he mused. He went into the kitchen and began opening drawers—everyone had a few thousand pens in a slovenly kitchen drawer, didn’t they?

  Travis returned to the living room. “I found—” The courier was gone. Come to think of it, why did the man come inside? And why did he shut the door? Unless—

  Travis whirled around, much too late. He took a sucker punch in the soft part of his stomach, exactly where he had been hit a few days before in the men’s room.

  Travis fell to his knees, struggling to maintain consciousness. The courier’s knee rose sharply and struck him under the chin. Travis fell backward, striking his head on the floor. He peered up blurry-eyed at his attacker. The man reached inside his attaché and withdrew a medium-sized gun with a silencer.

  Travis commanded his fog-filled head to clear. By God, he wasn’t going to let another two-bit bully get the drop on him. He caught the man’s foot just before it struck his rib cage. He pulled, sharp and hard; his assailant lost his balance and fell back into the kitchen. The man clutched the counter to keep from falling. Travis crawled after him and punched him in the side.

  Travis grabbed the hand holding the gun and pressed his thumbs down on the pressure points. The courier screamed and dropped the gun. Travis kicked it into the living room.

  The man jerked open a drawer, searching for anything he could use as a weapon. He found a battery-operated carving knife. Damn Cavanaugh and her upscale kitchen appliances! In an instant the man had flicked the power switch. The knife roared to life.

  Travis moved away as quickly as possible. An ordinary knife would be frightening enough—anything that made a noise like that he definitely did not want to come into contact with. The courier was waving the knife wildly back and forth, advancing like D’Artagnan, pressing Travis against the stove. Travis realized that he had run out of room to maneuver. The man with the knife was barely a foot away from his face.

  Travis grabbed the teakettle he had put on to boil. Ignoring the heat radiating from the brass handle, he threw the boiling water at his assailant. The man ducked, but not quite fast enough. He cried out as the water scalded his face.

  “Son of a bitch!” the man shouted. He clutched his face. “You’ll pay for that.” The man advanced again with the knife; Travis held out the kettle as a shield. He searched for a potential weapon, but there was nothing within reach more dangerous than a plastic place mat.

  The courier forced Travis into the living room. Travis dodged the sofa but slipped on the papers he’d left lying out the night before. He plummeted onto the coffee table, shattering the glass top. The man grinned malevolently and lowered the knife. …

  Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Travis saw Cavanaugh swing her briefcase directly into the back of the man’s head. The carving knife took flight; Travis ducked as it soared over his head. The man fell to his knees, eyelids fluttering. Cavanaugh hit him again, then once more for good measure. He fell in a crumpled heap on the floor.

  It took Travis several seconds to gain some semblance of his normal voice. “Good morning,” he said finally.

  “ ’Morning,” Cavanaugh replied. She was wearing a shimmering blue nightie. “Sleep well?”

  “Not bad. It was the wake-up call that was rough.”

  “So I see.”

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  “I was, till you two started clattering around in the kitchen.”

  “My apologies.”

  “Well, under the circumstances, you’re forgiven.”

  Just as Cavanaugh finished her absolution the courier jumped up and tackled her from behind, knocking her onto Travis. The man raced out the front door.

  Travis felt Cavanaugh’s warm skin through the nightie as she lay on top of him. She was surprisingly soft for such a likely bulemia candidate. “I’m going after him.”

  Cavanaugh grabbed his arm, pulling him back. “Don’t be a fool. If one goon found you, there could be others. And they might all be waiting outside.”

  “If they know where I am, I’ve got to leave.”

  “Granted. But let’s get organized before we make a break for it. If we run out half-cocked, we’ll get creamed.”

  “We?” His eyebrows rose. “Does this mean—”

  She rummaged through her closet and pulled out a duffel bag. “It means you’ve successfully dragged me into whatever the hell trouble you’re in.”

  “I can’t let you come with me. It’s too dangerous.”

  “What am I going to do, stay here and wait for the next hit man?”

  Travis frowned. He didn’t like the conclusion, but her logic was incontrovertible. “All right,” he said. “Get dressed. The sooner we’re out of here, the better.”

  40

  9:45 A.M.

  DONNY STROLLED INTO THE apartment parking lot, eyes twitching every which way at once. He didn’t see Kramer, but with a psychopath like him, it was best to exercise caution.

  This was Donny’s big chance to prove himself to Mario. Kramer was on his way out; Donny would step forward as his replacement. A made man. A lieutenant. After he heard one of Kramer’s men had found Travis’s car, he never let Kramer out of his sight. He trailed him from a respectful distance; he was certain Kramer hadn’t spotted him.

  He’d followed Kramer to the parking lot, then waited in his car for almost four hours until Kramer left. Fool. Kramer was probably planning some elaborate execution; Donny would nail Byrne before Kramer returned. It was simple, really. All he had to do was watch Byrne’s car, and when he returned to it, Donny would blow his face off. He patted the stolen gun in his coat pocket. Simple.

  Donny tried the car door. To his surprise, it was unlocked. He crawled into the front seat and looked around. Nothing particularly unusual, except that it was a mess. Fast-food bags all over the floor, moldy french fries in the crevices of the seats. A briefcase, but nothing inside but the usual shyster paraphernalia. He looked for a car key but didn’t find one. Even Byrne was smart enough not to leave that lying around.

  He crawled out of the car. As he emerged a yellow Dodge Omni whipped past him.

  Whaaat? He crossed through the parked cars to catch another glimpse of the Omni as it passed down the other side. This time he saw him clearly. Travis Byrne was sitting in the passenger seat.

  Damn! Some goddamn bimbo was driving; he must’ve hijacked a ride. Donny wanted to slap himself; he should’ve seen that coming. But there was no time for self-recrimination now. To salvage anything out of this mess, to prevent Mario from shipping him home to his mother, he was going to have to follow that car.

  He had parked his own car a good distance away so it wouldn’t be seen. If he ran to it, he had no chance of catching Byrne. Instead he leaped back into Byrne’s car and started groping around under the steering wh
eel. Most of the technical aspects of criminal life eluded Donny, but the one thing he was able to do was hotwire a car. He’d been doing it since he was twelve. Most of his teenage income had derived from this lucrative pursuit.

  He found the critical wires under the steering column, jerked the red wire free, and touched it to the green. The engine turned over like a dream.

  Donny smiled. He hadn’t lost the old touch. He’d catch Byrne and the bitch before they passed through the entrance gate.

  Still smiling, Donny thrust the automatic transmission into reverse, heard an odd clicking noise, and watched as the world turned into a haze of molten white. He never heard the explosion, and was spared the realization that he would never become a lieutenant.

  41

  9:55 A.M.

  THE SHOCK WAVES THREW Travis against the dash of Cavanaugh’s car. Cavanaugh slammed on the brakes.

  “What the hell was that?”

  Travis clutched the passenger seat, trying to regain his bearings. “I dunno,” he said dully. He turned around and saw a cloud of smoke billowing from the parking lot, the same section in which he had parked. “But I’m suddenly very glad we’re in your car and not mine.”

  Travis pulled his jacket close around him. He was feeling a distinct chill. How many more close shaves could he possibly hope to escape? He’d like to think he was surviving on his wits, bringing to bear years of police training, experience, and acquired wisdom. But he had a nagging suspicion that he had just been lucky. And this kind of luck wouldn’t hold out forever.

  “We need to go someplace safe,” he said quietly.

  “Such as? As far as I can tell, no place is safe as long as I’m with you. You need to figure out who the hell is trying to kill you.”

  “Thanks, Einstein.”

  “The way I see it, your link is Moroconi. He’s the one known factor. We know what he is, we know what he looks like.”

  “True. But we don’t know where he is.”

  “And that, my friend, is why you need a skip tracer.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You’ve gotten me messed up in this but good. It’s only a matter of time before they figure out I’m with you and start looking for me. And my car. If they could find you at my place, somewhere you’ve never been before in your entire life, in less than twelve hours—well, it won’t take them long to find me.”

  Travis looked at himself reproachfully in the mirror. He hated to admit it, but she was right. He had involved her. He’d put her life in danger just as surely as his own.

  “We need some answers, Byrne. And quick. And for that, we need Moroconi. Do you know his phone number?”

  “Sure,” Travis said. “Just dial M for Murderer.”

  “I take it that’s a no. Fortunately, I have an inkling how we might find him.”

  Travis felt a swelling in his chest. For the first time since the dawn of this nightmare, he had some small hope that he might survive it. “How do we start?”

  “By checking the phone records on that call Moroconi made to you night before last.”

  “How? By strolling casually into Southwestern Bell?”

  “Just let me take care of that, Byrne.” She pressed down on the accelerator and merged onto the LBJ Freeway. She pulled into the fast lane, hit her best cruising speed, and opened the console between the seats.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “The phone,” she muttered. She yanked out an old floppy fishing hat, complete with lures hooked around the brim.

  “You like to fish?” Travis asked.

  “I live to fish,” Cavanaugh replied.

  “Really?”

  “Is that so incredible?”

  “Well … you always seemed more the white-wine-and-croissant type to me.”

  Cavanaugh rolled her eyes. “I may surprise you.”

  “You already have.”

  She withdrew a small handheld tape recorder. “I use this to take notes sometimes,” she explained.

  “I’ve seen you talking into it in court. I always assumed you were calling me names.”

  “You may have been right.” She slipped the tape recorder inside her purse, then reached back into the console and withdrew a small portable phone. She clipped it onto her dash and plugged it into the lighter. Then she pressed a series of fifteen numbers.

  “Who are you calling?” Travis inquired.

  “An old friend. He owes me a big favor. And he works for the phone company.” After a momentary clicking, Travis heard the line ringing.

  “Hello? Crescatelli here.”

  “John? It’s your old pal Cavanaugh.”

  “Cavanaugh? Hey, it’s been a while. I heard you went legit.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Listen, John, I don’t have time to play ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ I need help. I’m in trouble, see. Very dangerous players are looking for me, including perhaps certain law enforcement agencies, and you’d be in big trouble if anyone found out you were talking to me.”

  There was a brief pause, a few clicks, then: “What’s that? I’m sorry, there must be some static on the line. Who is this again?”

  Cavanaugh smiled. “Bless you.”

  It sounded like Crescatelli was blowing into the receiver. “Damn these car phones. The reception is horrible. Who’s calling, please?”

  “John, I need access to a central switchboard computer terminal with the records for the last forty-eight hours for all lines in the greater Dallas/Fort Worth area Like, for example, the one you’re probably sitting in front of. And I need to make calls without being traced.”

  Crescatelli pounded the phone against something solid. “I can’t believe this crappy reception. It’s these new fiber-optic cables, you know. They don’t work worth beans. Look, whoever this is, I expect to be at my terminal until six o’clock tonight, but between twelve-thirty and one-thirty everyone else in the office goes to lunch, so I’ll be here all by my lonesome. If you can’t get a better connection, you might consider coming by in person.”

  Cavanaugh nodded. “Maybe I will. Talk to you later, John.” She pushed the red button, disconnecting the line.

  “Travis,” she asked, “how would you like to pay a visit to the inner bowels of Ma Bell?”

  42

  12:40 P.M.

  TRAVIS STOOD IN THE midst of row after row of electronic switching equipment and tried to act more comfortable than he really was. He didn’t think anyone would recognize him; he was certain he’d never been here before. Somehow, though, that didn’t make him feel a bit safer. He’d never been to Cavanaugh’s apartment before, either, but that didn’t prevent them from finding him.

  He was hiding behind dark sunglasses and beneath the brim of Cavanaugh’s fairly ridiculous fishing hat. Sure, it shaded his face, but he wondered if it didn’t attract more attention than it deflected. And it clashed with his necktie.

  John Crescatelli was a jumbo-sized man whose fingers skidded across his computer keyboard at a speed faster than the eye could follow. The terminal was connected by shiny metal cables to a series of metal boxes, each equipped with flashing lights, buttons, and LED displays. To Travis, the place looked like a set from Star Trek, but Cavanaugh assured him it was all standard-issue telecommunications equipment.

  “As I mentioned on the phone,” Cavanaugh said, “I need to be able to make phone calls that cannot be traced.”

  Crescatelli nodded, apparently nonplussed. “May I ask why?’

  “No. And let me remind you that I am not here, I never was here, you’ve never talked to me, you don’t know who I am, and you wouldn’t help me if you did.”

  “Roger.” He gazed at the ceiling. “Someday I must seek a cure for this dreadful habit of talking to myself. I guess it stems from the fact that I’m fundamentally a lonely person.”

  Cavanaugh smirked. “We’ll stand behind this row of beeping gizmos, just in case someone wanders in early from lunch.”

  Crescatelli continued to stare at the ceiling. “What was
that sound? The wind? Man, they really need to do something about the drafts in here.” He shuffled the papers on his desk. “Maybe this would be a good time to start outlining my doctoral dissertation—just in case I ever decide to go to college. In order to make an untraceable call, you need to understand about tandems.”

  Cavanaugh scribbled into her notepad. “Tandems. That rings a bell.”

  “The tandem is the key to the whole Bell telephone switching system. Each tandem is a carrier line with relays capable of switching other tandems in any toll-switching office in North America, either one-to-one or by programming a roundabout route through other tandems. If you call from Dallas to Tulsa and the traffic is heavy on all the direct trunks between the two cities, the tandem automatically reroutes you through the next best route, say for instance, through a tandem down in Shreveport or Houston, then up to Denver, then Wichita, then back to Tulsa.”

  “Thanks for the fascinating background info,” Cavanaugh muttered. “So how do you make the untraceable call?”

  “When a tandem is not in use, it whistles.”

  Travis blinked. “Whistles? Like Yankee Doodle Dandy?”

  “Mental note,” Crescatelli said. “Remove all frivolous asides from dissertation before publication. Anyway, when a caller dials a long-distance number, he is immediately connected to a tandem. The tandem stops whistling and converts the number into multifrequency beep tones, then transmits the tones to the tandem in the area code the caller wishes to reach.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Cavanaugh said. “I’ve got the general idea. Get on to the good stuff.”

  “You would think this system is utterly immune to interference—who could talk to a tandem? No one could—until someone invented the first blue box.” Crescatelli reached into his bottom desk drawer and withdrew a small blue metal shell case. “You see, Ma Bell got careless. She allowed some egghead on the East Coast to publish an article in a technical journal which, in passing, revealed the actual frequencies Bell uses to create those multifrequency tones. Who’d have thought anyone would notice? Well, one squid at MIT read that issue. And half a day later he’d created the first blue box.”